


Kill It With Kindness

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e16 Paint It Black, M/M, Mark of Cain, PWP, Spoilers, Swearing, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The Mark didn’t know what to do with tenderness. It couldn’t comprehend love.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean and Sam have a little reconnection session on the way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill It With Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> One of my lovely commenters specifically requested season 10 top!Dean. As per usual, though, Sam is still an awfully bossy bottom, so I'm not sure this is all they were hoping for, but I hope it entertains none the less :)

‘Sammy, what’re you still doin’ here?’

Sam paused in scrubbing dry his hair to lean around the bathroom door and look at Dean who was sitting on the bed stiff and tight, fingers of his left hand digging hard into his right arm over top of the Mark. His shoulders were hunched and held like he was trying to contain something dangerous inside himself. 

Sam had watched his brother closely in the car after they left Sister Mathais and St. Philomena’s. He hadn’t missed the way Dean flinched at the glare of the headlights coming at them on the road or the way he was sitting in the shotgun seat like the slightest jar from a pebble or pothole was going to shatter him to pieces. Then there was that little cough. As innocuous as it seemed, it had almost always been the herald of Dean being sick inside of ninety seconds. Although, if he was going to lose his lunch—because they hadn’t eaten dinner yet—he was bound to give Sam plenty of warning because there was no way in hell Dean was throwing up in his Baby.

Still.

Sam couldn’t help remembering Dean’s slow degeneration before as the Mark ate him from the inside out, and he ended up vomitting blood because his human body wasn’t strong enough to sustain the evil in that brand. It wanted blood. It wanted death.

All told, though, Dean had been handling the Mark remarkably well, even after killing Cain, at least where Sam could see him. Sam wasn’t stupid, though. Dean may be managing to maintain his I’m-Dean-Winchester-and-no-fucking-tattoo-is-taking-me-out facade (with surprisingly little alcoholic assistance Sam noted) on the outside, but Sam had no doubt what he couldn’t see going on on the inside was probably tantamount to Armageddon. And he would know—he’d been there.

So, regardless of the fact that Sam could probably have gotten them most of the way through Pennsylvania by midnight and didn’t really need that shower he complained of wanting after burning Isabella’s painting, he pulled off in a relatively quiet town with a one-horse motel near the highway and got a room. As he pulled off the interstate, he wasn’t sure what worried him more: the fact that Dean didn’t tease him about the princess needing to wash the soot out of her hair, or the fact that he looked an odd mix of relieved and terrified at stopping for the night.

‘Me?’ Sam finally asked, going back to drying his hair. ‘Why? Was I supposed to be going somewhere? You hungry? I could go grab us some food. It kind of looks like this place folds up at nine o’clock sharp, but the manager did mention a little bar and grill down the road. Maybe they’ve even got pie.’

Dean was silent for a long minute and Sam thought he might actually be considering the offer, then,

‘No, Sam. What are you still doin’ here with _me_?’

Sam wanted to play dumb— _God_ how he wanted to —but his stomach clenched hard at the meaning behind Dean’s words and his gaze zeroed in on his brother’s fingers, hooking even harder into his forearm. He thought for just a minute Dean might draw blood from the Mark, try feeding it back on itself, see how it liked that. He hitched the towel at his hips a little more securely and came into the room to sit across from his brother on the other bed.

Dean hated honesty, almost had an acute allergy to it. It came with the kind of upbringing they had, the work that they did; but sometimes there was no way around it, and Sam was about to give Dean his second dose for the evening.

‘You’re my brother. We’re family,’ Sam said simply.

Dean smirked the tiniest bit. ‘That’s not enough Sammy.’ 

Sam shivered a little at the hard edge in Dean’s voice that he hadn’t heard since his brother’s eyes were black and his soul was more Demon than human. 

‘That’s what causes most of the shit between us. You said so yourself once, everything bad that’s happened to us has been _because_ we’re family.’

Sam hissed and flinched. He hated having his own words thrown back at him. Those words were particularly venomous, and he had still never forgiven himself for saying them when he’d seen the way Dean’s heart had broken in his eyes.

Dean did not have the patent on harboring guilt, he was just a lot more obvious about it.

Sam lifted his gaze to see Dean watching him from under his brows, not maliciously but just waiting, waiting for Sam to counter. _Hoping_ for him to counter?

‘Okay.’ Sam let out a slow breath. ‘What do you want to know? Why am I _here_ here, right now? Or…?’

Dean shook his head. ‘You got out, Sam. You got out, had a future, a girl. You let me drag you back into the life.’

‘In all fairness, Yellow-eyes kind of didn’t give me a choice, Dean.’

Dean ignored him and pushed on. ‘You had Amelia and a chance to start over, and you let me guilt you back into _this_.’

‘Her husband came back,’ Sam countered. ‘Practically from the dead. I couldn’t stay there.’

‘You had a chance! She loved you. She would have picked you.’

‘She needed a normal life,’ Sam said quietly, ‘and we had a world to save. I couldn’t drag those shadows to her door—.’

‘Fuck the damn world!’ Dean shouted, coming up off the bed like he was spring-loaded. Sam reared back a little in surprise. ‘What the hell has the world ever done for us?’

Dean’s eyes were flashing wild and desperate. Sam stood, grabbing his brother’s shoulders. Dean tried to jerk away but Sam’s huge hands just clamped down the harder and held him tight. It might be a dangerous move, there was really no telling what would set the Mark off, but Sam wasn’t letting go. For anything.

‘Dean, what the—.’

Dean was suddenly in Sam’s arms, plastered against him, head tucked into Sam’s shoulder. Sam was so startled it took him a full half second to get his arms wrapped around his brother’s back.

‘Sam, I’m runnin’ out of time,’ Dean whispered. He moved his head against Sam’s shoulder. ‘I can feel it…eating me up, changing me. God, Sam…I don’t want to die.’

Dean shuddered and Sam gripped him tight, one hand going up to cradle the back of his head.

‘I’m not going to let it happen, Dean. I swear I’m not. Not this time,’ Sam promised in a strained whisper.

Dean nodded against his brother’s shoulder. He hadn’t allowed himself this in so long. Just to lean on his little brother for a moment and let him hold him up. Sam had tried after Dean had killed Cain, but he’d pulled away not long after, honestly afraid of what might happen if he stayed too close; terrified of what Cain had said about living his life in reverse, that he might lash out at any second and try and strike Sam down.

The Mark still burned under his palm, but Sam’s heartbeat under his cheek was a powerful counterpoint to the throb of the brand; and if he concentrated on that steady thrum that had meant life and love and safe and home to him for the better part of his life, it almost drown out the pounding hunger of the Mark.

Sam lowered them to the bed, shifting Dean against his chest until he could take hold of his brother’s cramped fingers and peel them back from the enflamed skin. He winced to see it, understood why Dean had been so tense with the pain, seeing the angry red color emblazoned against his pale skin.

‘Sammy, don’t,’ Dean begged. He knew he should move, pull back, get away before his control slipped and the Mark’s persistent taunting pushed him over the edge. But then Sam did something that Dean did to expect and the Mark could never have calculated.

Sam lifted Dean’s forearm, cradled it in his broad palm and then slowly bent his head to press his lips directly against the raised flesh.

Kill it with kindness. It was the first thought in Dean’s head as heat flooded his veins, but it wasn’t hungry heat, not blood-hungry. It was something else. Sam’s mouth moved against his skin, he felt the soft stroke of his tongue and a gentle suckling, almost as if Sam thought he could draw the poison of the Mark out through Dean’s skin like he would venom from a wound.

The Mark didn’t know what to do with tenderness. It couldn’t comprehend love, and its grip on Dean was slipping, letting the hard knott in his belly loosen and uncoil, letting him take a breath without being afraid it would shatter him to pieces. His hand found the back of Sam’s skull, fingers twining up into his thick hair and flexing gently against his scalp, a motion his muscles remembered Sam had loved once.

Sam kept sucking softly, tracing the design of the Mark from end to end with the tip of his tongue and then laving over it in long, warm, flat stokes like he could erase it completely if he did it enough times.

Dean sighed. ‘Sammy….’

Sam murmured something quiet and unintelligible against Dean’s skin. Maybe just a sound. It didn’t matter. They didn’t need words. Never had. It had been a very long time since they touched like this, since before Metatron and Purgatory, and Amelia, and Sam returning soulless from the Cage. The last time they had been this close was the night before Sam jumped. Just a few stolen moments on the hood of a rusted out sedan in the back corner of Bobby’s salvage yard. 

What was supposed to have been a tender good-bye, a testament to what they shared and what Dean would carry around with him for what he thought was the rest of his long, uneventful life, had ultimately been desperate and brutal, and Dean had hated himself for it. Because it left Sam in tears even though he had begged for it, begged Dean to have him just exactly like that, sprawled helpless and pinned and whining beneath the brute force of his brother’s furious thrusts. Sam had sacrificed—again—the good-bye he wanted, the last memory he could make to take with him the Hell, for Dean’s well-being, letting Dean work out his fury and frustration with the universe at large and Sam in particular because in less than twenty-four hours there would _be_ no more Sam. No more _this_. Not ever.

Or so he’d thought.

After that it was mistrust and anger and lies and betrayal that had wedged between them and kept them apart. They grew so distant that Dean thought they might never come back to center, and he could barely remember what it felt like to be touched like this.

‘Dean?’

Dean’s eyes fluttered open. He couldn’t remember having closed them. Sam was sitting down on his heels now between Dean’s splayed thighs, his lips pink and swollen from working over the Mark. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright and his hands weren’t holding Dean’s arm anymore, they were spread over Dean’s thighs, kneading into the powerful quad muscles. Dean’s hand was still tangled in his hair. The towel at Sam’s waist had come loose and slithered down his thighs and did nothing to shield the full, hard swell of his erection.

Desire slammed into Dean so hard he gasped with it, fingers clenching hard in his brother’s hair until Sam gave a tiny hiss of pain and tipped his head back to ease the pressure. All that did, though, was bare the long line of his throat to his brother and Dean’s fingers twisted harder, jerking Sam’s head back.

Dean leaned in close, eyes gone dark and dangerous, pupils blown wide and so black that Sam’s heart tripped over a beat in fear before he could recognize the thin ring of brilliant green and reassure himself that this was still Dean sitting in front of him. 

‘It should have been different,’ Dean growled, low and throaty, breath hot on Sam’s skin. ‘ _This_ should be different, but dammit, Sammy….’

Sam swallowed audibly and kept his eyes trained on Dean’s. ‘Do it, Dean. Anything. Anything and everything you need.’

Dean shook his head once, twitched like he was trying to resist some monumentally strong force pushing him forward; but in the end he gave in and his mouth slammed down on Sam’s.

Sam moaned because it was all he could do with his head wrenched back, his throat bared like some human sacrifice waiting for the priest’s blade, his lips mashed and bruised under the force of his brother’s passion. His body wanted this, in every way, even as his mind rebelled and tried to skitter away from the brutality he knew was coming.

Dean never hurt him. Never had hurt him. But the shreds of innocence that had once made their lovemaking sweet and beautiful had long since been torn out of Dean even before he came back for Sam the first time at Stanford all those years ago. The only things left behind were need and desire and fear.

Suddenly the pressure was gone from Sam’s mouth. His eyes shot wide and he looked down to find Dean on his knees in front of him, face buried in his arms, trembling.

‘Dean?’

‘Don’t let me do it, Sam,’ Dean said, his voice ruined and raspy with restrained tears, ‘Not like this. Please, not like this.’

Sam reached out for Dean’s arms and drew them down. He bent low to peer into Dean’s face. ‘Dean, what is it? Tell me how to help you.’

‘I-I told that priest, Sammy…told him I wanted things to be different. _I_ wanted to be different. I wanna make it right, Sam. I wanna make _right_.’

Sam nodded in slow understanding and took hold of Dean’s hands to urge him to stand. He sat down on the bed, letting the towel fall away completely and then scooted back and laid down, opening himself to Dean.

‘Lay down with me, Dean,’ Sam commanded softly. ‘Take off your clothes and lay down with me.’

Sam’s long, lithe body, spread out on the bed mesmerized Dean more thoroughly than any witch’s glamor might have, and for a moment all he could do was stare before his fingers slowly found the buttons on his shirt and began working them loose. He tugged at his bootlaces, finally managing to yank them free, and then his jeans came next until he stood naked by the bed with nothing but Sam’s gaze against his skin.

‘Take my hand,’ Sam said and reached out so Dean could lace their fingers together and follow Sam’s gentle tugging motion until he was kneeling between his thighs.

‘Now. Take _me_.’ 

Sam brought their clasped hands to his belly and pressed Dean’s palm flat until he could feel the muscles quivering underneath. Dean drew in a ragged breath and sucked his bottom ip between his teeth. He sat back on his heels and brought his other hand in to rest as well on the flat plane of Sam’s belly. The skin was white and soft and dusted with fine dark hairs.

Dean had always loved the long line of Sam’s torso, from when he was barely a teenager and his skin was still soft and layered with just enough baby fat to conceal the toughening muscles underneath; to the rangy college kid who was all skin and bone and sinew and looked like some fay creature from another world when the light hit him just right; to the hard rippling texture of muscle born of a fiery determination and burning need for revenge; to the spare, efficient, battle worn and war weary instrument he was tonight.

Dean’s hand skated down, curving around Sam’s taut obliques, moving up his side to his ribs, and then back forward to splay his fingers wide on Sam’s chest. He traced Sam’s sternum with his thumbs and his deeply hollowed clavicles with his fingertips. Sam responded beautifully, breath coming in short little pants, eyes growing turbulent with desire, and when Dean leaned over to place a trail of kisses where his fingers had just been, he felt the long, hot line of Sam’s erection pressed up against his belly, and he moaned softly.

‘Tell me, Sammy.Tell me how you want it.’

Sam swallowed once, twice, wet his lips and breathed out harshly, unable to find the words he needed in the tumbled rush of thoughts and feelings singing through his body.

‘Tell me, baby boy,’ Dean whispered against Sam’s throat.

Sam whimpered and closed his eyes against a surge of tears. Dean had not used that tender endearment in years, so long that the ease with which it tumbled from his lips now let Sam know that even if he hadn’t been speaking it aloud he must have been thinking it, and the realization sent a shaft of pure undiluted love straight through his chest so painful he would have sworn he’d been stabbed by one of his own silver blades. He had thought _this_ was lost to them, that Dean no longer wanted it—wanted _him_ —but to hear him say….

‘Say it again.’ Sam whispered, taking Dean’s face in his hands and holding him so their gazes were locked. ‘Please. Say it again.’

Dean look confused for half a second and then the light caught and held on the standing tears in his eyes.

‘Baby boy…’ he murmured and leaned in to kiss Sam’s lips with infinite care and coaxing until Sam couldn’t bear the pressure building in his chest from his heart swelling with a thousand emotions, and he cried out against Dean’s mouth, wrapped his arms and legs around his brother’s body and pulled him in, crushing them together.

Dean swept the curves of Sam’s mouth with long, deep, slow strokes until neither of them could breath and then he kissed a slow, wet line to Sam’s ear, teased it gently with his teeth and breathed warm over his damp skin.

‘Missed you so much, baby boy.’

Sam arched into Dean, clamping his legs tighter around his brother, hips rocking to get closer, to slot this throbbing aching flesh into the perfect hollow of Dean’s hip.

‘Tell me what you want, Sammy,’ Dean breathed between kisses that traveled down and across Sam’s pectoral, paused at this nipple to lick and worry it gently between his teeth until Sam cried out again. ‘Tell me, baby boy.’

Sam gasped and shuddered as Dean dragged himself heavily and purposefully across Sam’s engorged shaft while he continued to plant hot kisses all along Sam’s ribs and down across his quivering belly.

‘Inside,’ Sam gasped. ‘Please. Want you in me.’

Dean suppressed a groan as his dick twitched hard at the request. He glided a hand down across Sam’s hip, cupped his thick, throbbing cock for just a brief second and then moved it down and back, lifting Sam’s balls and kneading them carefully a couple of times before going back further. Sam let his legs fall open wide and when Dean’s fingers brushed at that tight hidden ring of muscle, he whined out loud.

Dean pressed at Sam’s entrance, massaging, feeling the muscle loosen to invite him in. He grabbed himself and rubbed the weeping head of his cock against Sam’s hole causing him to jerk hard and suck in a breath.

‘Shhh, Shh, baby boy, don’t worry. Just giving us a little something to ease the way,’ Dean soothed.

Sam instantly relaxed, letting Dean rub the slick, hot, swollen head of his dick against Sam’s opening until Dean was groaning and had to pause and pull back and squeeze the base of his cock.

‘Jesus, Sam,’ he gasped. ‘Could come right now, just like this, just…rubbin’ on you. God…so hot, baby boy. So hot and tight….’

‘No,’ Sam panted. ‘Want you in me. Deep. Deep as you can go. Want to be crammed full of you, Dean. So full.’

“Holy….’ Dean throttled the base of his cock again to slow the steady drip of pre-cum that blurted at Sam’s words. ‘Can’t talk like that, Sammy. Gonna make me come without even touchin’ you.’

Sam like that idea, filed it away for later, but right now he wanted his brother inside him. He grabbed Dean’s hand and pushed it back to his now slicked up opening and urged two of his fingers inside.

‘Slow down, baby boy,’ Dean said, trying to pull back a little. ‘Don’t want to hurt you.’

Sam writhed and forced Dean’s fingers in farther. ‘How _I_ want, remember?’

‘Fucking Christ,’ Dean moaned and dropped forward to lean over Sam, kissing him like he might die if he didn’t. His other hand he worked slowly between Sam’s legs, pushing two fingers up and inside him, scissoring them in tiny moves, feeling Sam loosen and stretch around him, monitoring his discomfort and his pleasure in the tension of his belly pressed flush against Dean’s.

Sam flexed and squeezed and worked himself down Dean’s fingers eagerly until he had them buried deep inside him to the last knuckle. He groaned against Dean’s mouth,

‘More.’

Dean pulled out to add another finger but Sam clenched and growled low in his throat. ‘You. Now. Want _you._ ’

’Sammy….’

Sam changed tactics at Dean’s protest, whimpered, turned his bright sad puppy eyes on him and begged, ‘Can’t wait, Dean. Please.’

 ‘Oh, for—.’

Dean pulled out and Sam nearly cried with the suddenness of it. Dean slicked himself—no challenge with the generous pool of pre-cum on the sheets between Sam’s legs and the pool resting in the hollow of Sam’s belly—then paused for just a second, looking down at the long, thick length of his brother’s blood fattened cock: the flushed, swollen head so full that the slit was clearly visible and pushing out a steady string of pearly droplets that made Dean’s mouth water. 

‘Wanted to suck you, Sam,’ he said, still worshipping his brother’s amazing dick with his eyes. ‘Wanted to lick you ‘till you screamed and suck you dry.’

He watched in satisfaction as another tiny jet of pre-cum blurted onto Sam’s belly at his words.

‘Later,’ Sam gasped. ‘Promise. Next time. Just, now…please!’

Sam rolled his hips up, baring his ass, holding himself open and ready for Dean to push inside. Dean nearly choked on a sudden sob at the realization of just how eager and trusting Sam still was of him. After everything they had been through, done to each other, Sam would still offer him this without hesitation.

Dean gripped himself hard and lined up and pushed in. Sam was still tight and the initial stretch had him tensing up until Dean smoothed a palm over his belly and the insides of his thighs, stroking tenderly.

‘Easy, baby boy. Relax. Let me in.’

Sam instantly went limp, tension draining away, and Dean pushed deeper. Sam’s heat was searing and as it closed around Dean’s swollen head he thought he might not be able to keep from coming.

‘Not gonna last, Sammy,’ he ground out between teeth clenched against the orgasm knotting deep and tight and ready in his belly. ‘Gotta come. So bad.’

Sam didn’t answer, just wrapped his legs around Dean’s hips and pulled him in, gasping at the painful stretch and burn.

‘Sam, stop. Stop!’ Dean panted. ‘You’re gonna hurt yourself.’

Sam paused, but only for a moment before he was drawing Dean deeper, working himself further down the velvet hardness of Dean’s cock, and suddenly he couldn’t keep silent.

‘Want it, Dean. Oh God…I want it deep. So deep. Wanna feel you huge and hard inside me, stretching me open.’ He arched up, gaining another inch. His own cock was so full it sprang up from his belly ready to pulse out his orgasm at any second. Dean was shuddering between Sam’s thighs, trying to fight the undeniable wave set and ready to crash over him and maybe just drown him with its intensity. Sam felt his insides stretch even more as his words pumped fresh blood to Dean’s cock.

‘Push it in, Dean,’ Sam demanded. ‘Push it deep. Can feel it…hurts so good. God! So huge…so full. Fuck…Dean!’

Sam’s voice rose to a shrill, near hysterical cry as Dean slammed the last fraction of an inch into him, deep and hard, and came in huge uncontrolled pulsing throbs that sucked the air from his lungs and sent reality bursting into tiny shards of staticky white oblivion.

He heard a long, loud scream that probably sent chills down the spines of anyone in a five mile radius, but he knew it was just Sam coming on his cock, shooting hot ropes of cum all over both their bellies and chests.

When they finally came down, Sam was gasping, panting, and shuddering in an effort to get his air back, and Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to move again. He collapsed over Sam, wrapped his arm around him, and rolled them to their sides.

‘Sam?’ Dean pushed aside a sweaty tendril of dark hair from Sam’s forehead. ‘Sammy?’ 

Sam’s eyes fluttered open. They were vibrant, the colors separated and brilliantly vivid, a starburst of green and blue and gold. He smiled.

‘Perfect,’ he breathed.

Dean felt a blush climb his cheeks and ducked his head a little. ‘Only to you.’ He brushed more of Sam’s hair back and cupped his palm to Sam’s cheek. ‘And that’s all that matters to me.’

Sam scooted forward a little more, molding together every inch of bare flesh between them, and looked into Dean’s eyes. ‘In answer to your question….’

Dean’s breath caught in apprehension in his throat and his thumb trembled ever so slightly as it brushed in a soothing, repeated stroke across Sam’s cheekbone.

‘I’m here,’ Sam said softly, firmly, ‘have _always_ been here, because I love you.’ 

He took hold of Dean’s right arm and rubbed his thumb over the ridged flesh that Dean had momentarily almost convinced himself he’d forgotten. ‘No Mark is going to change that, and nothing you do because of the Mark will change it either. I own you, Dean Winchester. First, last, and always. No Mark or curse or monster is ever going to take you away from me,’ Sam whispered against the corner of Dean’s mouth. ‘I will never give you up, and I will never give up _on_ you, Dean. Never.’

Dean ducked his head down to rest on Sam’s shoulder. All of his life he had taken care of his little brother in one way or another. He had stolen him from the jaws of death the night of the fire thirty-two years ago and had laid claim to his soul that very same night. All he had done—all he had _ever_ done his entire life—was with one goal in mind: to protect Sam. He had never felt so lost as the year he had believed his brother dead and completely beyond his reach; or so alone as having the shell of his brother mere inches away when his soul withered and decayed in Hell.

It had never occurred to him before that Sam felt the same way about him.

‘Dean?’ Sam tilted Dean’s face up and wiped away a tear. Dean’s arms threaded around Sam’s ribs, still too lean and prominent from the wear and tear he’d undergone during the Trials, and pulled him in as close as he could. Sam settled his chin on the top of Dean’s head. ‘So, are we going to fight this? Are you going to let _me_ fight this?’

‘We’ll fight it together, Sam,’ Dean said. ‘For as long as we can.’

It was the best Dean could give him and at least he sounded like he meant it this time. It would have to be enough. They would make it enough, because that was what they did. When the cards were stacked against them and the odds were so far out of their favor there was no win in sight; they found a way. They always found a way.

After all, Sam had done something far more difficult than merely retrieving Dean from Hell. He had stolen him back from his own dark soul—Hell had nothing on the kind of torment Dean Winchester reserved for himself—and he’d had done that with perseverance born out of love. It may only have been the first battle but it was a war he would not lose.

No matter what the cost.

 


End file.
